


Accessory to Murder

by Dark_Aegis



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Humour, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-05
Updated: 2012-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-29 00:47:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/313989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_Aegis/pseuds/Dark_Aegis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of these days, he's going to have to kill him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accessory to Murder

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_arc5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_arc5/gifts).



> Thanks to yamx and ponygirl72 for their encouragement and BRing. Thanks, too, to nnwest for the plotting :) Based on two prompts from my "Drabble Me!" meme: aibhinn's "eating" and the_arc5's "promise"

****

"Accessory to Murder"  
by Gillian Taylor

 

There comes a time when John comes home from a day at the surgery and finds his favourite jumper has been disassembled into its component threads - for an experiment of some sort most likely. He should be furious. He should be yelling right about now, but instead he sighs the sigh of the long suffering and glares at his friend. “You realise that one of these days I am going to have to kill you.”

Sherlock looks up from his study of a thread and smiles. In fact, John would call him almost gleeful. “Really? Oh, I do hope so.”

He blinks, shocked. “Sherlock, you didn’t really just try to encourage me to kill you, right?”

The look he receives makes him feel like his brain must be dribbling out his ears. “I have high expectations for you, John. Do not disappoint.”

And that is the end of that particular conversation.

* * *

The troubling thing is that once Sherlock’s put the idea in his head - truly put the idea in his head - he can’t stop thinking about it. He’s lifting a spoonful of sugar and preparing to pour it into Sherlock’s tea when he pauses, wondering. It’d be relatively simple to -

“Boring,” Sherlock says, interrupting his thoughts. “Poison? Honestly? You’ll have to try harder than that.”

He drops the spoonful into the tea and stirs it, trying his best not to indicate his frustration. Of course, this isn’t successful, especially when you live with a man who can tell where you’ve been from the dirt on your shoes and read your life’s story from your middle finger. Then again, Sherlock might just have a lot of experience having middle fingers being pointed at him.

“I wasn’t going to use poison,” he says. He wasn’t going to use anything, really. It’s more a thought exercise.

Sherlock doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t have to. His disdain is the elephant in the room that no-one can miss.

Several hours later, he’s relaxing in his favourite chair and his mobile beeps. He pulls it out of his pocket and looks at the screen.

 _I understand you’re trying to kill my brother. How can I help?_

 _MH_

Sherlock grabs his mobile before he can even formulate a response, typing quickly and then returning it to him.

He reads the sent message.

 _Piss off. It doesn’t count if you help him._

 _SH_

* * *

The gun is a reassuring weight in his hand as he presses his back against the wall. Sherlock’s just around the corner, keeping their suspect busy. It’s his job to put an end to this before Sherlock finds himself their serial killer’s eighth victim.

He hears the telltale click of a safety being drawn and that’s his cue. Years of training make the difference between pulling the safety and firing the matter of a split second. He steps around the corner, sights, and fires before their suspect kills Sherlock.

The man collapses in slow motion, gripping his thigh. It’s a clean shot. The man won’t die from it, but he is out of action and, more importantly, Sherlock is safe.

He isn’t even aware he’s thinking of it when Sherlock looks at the gun he’s still holding in his hand. “Really, John?”

That’s all he says. ‘Really, John.’ He puts the gun away and sighs.

His phone beeps in his pocket and withdraws it absently as Sherlock waves over Lestrade.

 _I do have a list if you need assistance._

 _Anthea_

John sighs again and puts the phone away.

* * *

Knives are elegant weapons. Personal. He’s seen enough injuries by now to become overly familiar with the technique. This particular murder was done with almost physician-like precision. The cuts are even. Not one stroke was wasted.

Disturbed by the turn of his thoughts, John shudders and tries to think about something else. Anything else. Somehow, his gaze is drawn to the knives and swords on display around the flat. The murder weapon is lying on the floor beside the victim - a K-Bar knife much like the ones given to military personnel.

“Mundane,” Sherlock says. “ _Boring_.” When he looks at his friend, he realises the man’s not looking at the body, but at him.

“Sherlock,” he hisses. This isn’t the right place for this discussion. They’re surrounded by police who definitely wouldn’t understand.

“Do you realise how many people are killed by knives every year? Try again.”

John fights the urge to bash his head against the wall.

* * *

Honestly, if he knew saying the words ‘I’m going to kill you’ even in jest would provide this much enjoyment for his sociopathic flatmate, he never would’ve said them. John isn’t actively thinking about murder. He’s just flipping idly through a novel when Sherlock plucks the book from his hands and, of course, reads the ending.

“Medieval torture, while unique, would be difficult to manage, John,” Sherlock says as he hands back the novel.

“I’m not going to...why are you so obsessed with this?” John asks.

Sherlock looks at him and, for once, it’s not one of his ‘why is everyone so stupid?’ looks but rather a searching one. “I’m not the one who is obsessed.”

He lets his head fall back to the back of his chair with a loud thump. He’s not obsessed with this. Killing Sherlock isn’t something he even wants to do - though, admittedly, it’d at least get the man to stop bothering him about this. “Drawn and quartered, then,” he says.

“But where would you find four horses around central London? And, no, asking a colleague of yours to provide them is simply too predictable.”

How on earth could Sherlock have known about Edward? The man had only been a groom in the Household Cavalry for a few months. He sighs. Of course Sherlock knows. If the man suddenly developed psychic powers, no-one would notice the difference. “I could always push you into the tiger cage at the zoo.”

Sherlock pauses for a moment and shakes his head. “No, definitely not. That’s far too impersonal. If you were to kill me, John, it’d be a crime of passion.”

John can see that. If he were moved to murder, there’d be feeling behind it. Exasperation and frustration, perhaps. He can never seem to hold onto anger around Sherlock. There’s something about the man that seems to diffuse any sort of anger he might be able to muster. It’s rather annoying.

Sherlock steps closer to him, placing his hands on the arms of his chair to effectively pin him in place. A truly wicked smile crosses the other man’s face as he offers a suggestion. “I’ve always favoured erotic asphyxiation myself.”

 

 ****

END


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